


And They All Died Happily Ever After

by CoralChimaera



Category: Black Friday - Team StarKid, The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Black Friday Spoilers, F/M, angst with (somewhat) happy ending, but I still want them to get a happy ending, in which I don’t want to rewrite the canon, it does have gore in this so BE WARNED, not plotwise but I do mention characters, other than Emma and Paul the others are only mentioned, there is some noncon kissing so I'm tagging that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21543583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralChimaera/pseuds/CoralChimaera
Summary: In which Emma and Paul finally get their own happily ever after, and watch the world burn.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	And They All Died Happily Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> SO! I did edit a lot, but I'm happier with the end result.

In another world, maybe she could’ve been happy.

Shit, Emma didn’t know. In another dimension, maybe her sister could’ve lived.

Maybe Tom would actually talk to her, let Tim (Jane's son, _Jane's son_ ) talk to her like a normal person.

Fuck Clivesdale.

But now? As soon as she got notice she survived the apocalypse, lost everyone, everything, she was going to lose it again.

All she knew was that she loved Paul, sweet, neurotic (really lovable) Paul. And she would’ve kissed him (but i coughed blood on his face by accident) and she told him to play the hero and save the world.

And now because of her, Paul was dead. Instead of Paul, his dead body was walking towards her. And it was _smiling _.__

The body looked batshit crazy. She’d never actually seen a rabid dog, but this is what it would look like on a human. Mad, rolling blue eyes and an ever present, bared snarl on his face. Literal froth spewing from his mouth.

(oh my god they’re fucking feral)

So many other people were there, like Paul’s coworkers, some of the nurses, Professor Hidgens (oh god why did you do that professor). The wounds that killed them were still there, stained blue and attempting to mend.

Ted (the asshole, fucking asshole) had a bullet wound to his forehead. She didn’t see him die, but she heard the gunshot.

Bill (oh god he only wanted his daughter back) had a bullet wound in his chest, still oozing.

They were singing some shit about how it was futile trying to resist "the ultimate perfection of the hive." (jesus fucking christ haven't heard 'apotheosis' used so many times since high school english) but no matter, she needed to _run._

She was running (but I can’t run my leg leg hurts). The hive must've gone to town, she could hear screams and song coming from closed rooms. A few were open, and she made the mistake of glancing as she ran. The walls were sprayed with red (oh my fucking god i'm gonna barf holy shit) and limp bodies slumped against the crimson flecked beds.

_"EMMA!"_

Yeah, she had to run. She would've made it farther if not for her leg, staggering down the bloody halls. She slipped in a puddle of red (oh my god that's someone's blood) and landed with a crack on the floor.

They grabbed her, claws scrabbling at her arms, hauling her up. She screamed, kicking, but it was no use.

She was going to die, and she was going to die in Clivesdale.

“Fuck! Fuck!” she screeched, punching and flailing. Emma liked to think herself strong, years of mountain climbing paid off, but even without the injured knee she still wouldn't've been able to get out. Even the professor's shaking hands (that's not hidgens it isn't him) were gripping tight enough to cut off the circulation to her arms,

They still gripped her arms, and showed her (presenting they’re presenting me) to Paul.

And there was Paul, smiling. She knew it wasn’t really Paul, it was an alien masquerading in Paul’s dead body. Every logical part of her brain screamed for her to run, even though it wouldn't help, but she could try. (but it isn't paul) He had to remember, he had to remember _something._

What other options did she have? Run, get ripped apart. Stay, get ripped apart. She was dead either way, but at least she could die knowing a little bit of Paul's humanity had clung to his body.

“Paul,” she begged. “Jesus Christ, Paul, it’s me, Emma—“

She felt the blood spurting from her throat before she even felt the pain.

Her knees buckled, and she teetered forwards. Not-Paul caught her gracefully, as though it was a dip in a waltz.

(paul wouldn’t do this paul doesn’t dance)

“Emma,” he sang, and Not-Paul looked at her with such saccharine adoration, it made her stomach curl with disgust.

(not paul not paul not paul)

“Fuck you,” she gargled, shoving at him. It didn’t work, and he held her firm. The world was going blurry, and all she could taste was her own blood (welling in my throat fuck it hurts).

The others surrounded her, surrounded them, singing some ominous sounding background harmony and it felt like when she was in Brigadoon, a scene where the ensemble surrounded the two lovers and sang together about their happy ending.

(fuck brigadoon)

“I’ll save you, Em,” (paul didn’t call me em did he i don't think so) Not-Paul crooned, and she spat a bloody glob of saliva in his face.

“Go to hell,” she forced out, blood bubbling from the gaping hole in her throat.

(spat right in his eye sorry paul but you’re not paul)

And suddenly, she felt lips on her (oh they’re chapped they taste like shit) and she flailed (he's too strong paul stop you're hurting me) and Not-Paul was kissing her, tenderly cupping her face.

She wanted to enjoy it, enjoy the semblance of what their life together could've been like, but she couldn't pretend it was. It was too saccharine, too serene. too artificially romantic.

(paul would be awkward he’d fumble and mess up and then we’d both laugh)

Something welled (oh that tastes like shit) and spilled into her mouth (this is what the blue shit tastes like) and she tried to writhe, get away, maybe escape, but Not-Paul held her still, held her like he loved her.

(this thing doesn’t love me)

And it was forcing its way down her throat, into her stomach, her veins (this is what the people at beanie’s went through oh my god) and it burned, convulsed in hysteric agony.

Distantly, she was keenly aware that it hurt, like she was being split in two and fused together again. She was gagging, choking, and her body made contact with the floor. Hands reached for her again and she snarled (oh god what was that i didn't make that sound) and they retreated.

(the new child fights.)

(the little one is strong.)

(but we shall prevail.)

She could feel it, feel the spores settling within her. She could hear thoughts and music that weren’t her own invading her mind (oh my fucking god i'm hearing the fucking voices)

(welcome new one.)

(get out of my head)

She cradled her head and screamed. But it came out as a note.

(welcome to peace and unity)

(fuck you)

(would you like to see how much he loved you?)

In real time, she whimpered, scratching at her skin like how a mad dog scratches fleas. "Oh god, make it stop," she moaned, but it came out as a low croon. "I can't stop it, but I can't drop it."

(what the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK is happening to me)

(would you like to see how much he loved you?)

(stop don’t fuck with my head)

(the hive loves all, the hive sees all, every terrible thought, every exquisite memory. even yours.)

(stop stop stop stop)

(we can show you his, and to him the same.)

(stop stop s t o p)

(the hive does not erase the individual, we love the individual, we connect the individuals.

(s t o p)

(you can love each other forever, connected forever.)

(p l e a s e s t o p)

"I SAID STOP!" Emma shouted, and for once, it was a shout instead of a song.

The hive seemed to pause in shock, but the brief moment of triumph was swiftly fading. The hive must not have liked that, because the voices in her head sounded less like a kind parent chiding a child and more like an angry one that was on the verge of dropping the niceties.

(join the hive Emma. you have defied us more than even Paul, who fought admirably yet is now one of us. you hatched the idea in his mind to destroy us. we could rip you apart, destroy your puny human body, and spare you the bliss of apotheosis. but he longs for you still, even in the embrace of the hive. are we not merciful to allow you ascension?)

To illustrate, the hands reached for her again, this time with far more malicious intent.

(are we not merciful Emma?)

(stop)

(are we not merciful Emma?)

(please s t o p s t o p s t o p)

(join us Emma. you will be reborn and forget your rebellious thoughts. you will forget the pain. you will be happy. don't you want to be happy, Emma?)

(yes, you do. you long for it so. you wish to forget the past and be fulfilled, in the arms of those who care for you. now you can have it. you have it all.)

(join us Emma. you cannot refuse.)

(join us Emma.)

Everything was cold. But she didn’t mind anymore.

The rhythm of the body was gone. No more breath, no more blood pulsing weakly through her veins.

Her body felt more ready than it had in years, like it was ready to spring up and and sprint, or leap and dance.

She wasn’t alone anymore. A persistent, catchy hum, a distinctive beat.

A beat.

Music?

Her thoughts felt absent. Yet a strange buzz pervaded her thoughts, like the whispering of other people surrounding her.

(she’s a coming)

(the newest child is here)

(Emma)

(Emma)

(Emma?)

And she opened her eyes, and Paul was gazing back at her.

“Paul?”

Her voice didn’t sound like her throat was ripped out. It sounded like the tinkling of soprano bells, musical and sweet.

(wasn’t I an alto?)

(Yep. You were.)

He popped the p. That’s something Paul used to do. Now that she looked at him properly, the expression on his face looked concerned. Not panicked, but still concerned. Just like the Paul she used to know.

(it’s really you?)

(Yeah. It’s still me.)

Cautiously, she raised a hand to her open throat. The blood had crusted over, and now her hand was stained blue as she pulled it away. How strange. How did she even get her throat ripped open?

(huh)

Paul gave a little laugh.

(It’s pretty weird at first. When I woke up, the other half of my body was fifteen feet away.)

A vivid mental image was supplied, other people staring down at Paul’s eviscerated body, Paul’s perspective as he saw his limbs unattached to his own torso.

Emma physically flinched, and Paul steadied her.

“I healed, and so will you. I know it’s new, but get a clue.”

Now that she wasn’t running for her life, Paul’s voice sounded nice. She couldn’t even remember why she was running. Why did she run away from the hive? Her family?

“How are we not singing when we’re thinking?” Emma questioned. The phrase itself was sweetly sung.

The surrounding buzz in her mind supplied thoughts of rhymes and lyrics, melodies and harmonies and the choreography.

“I don’t know, it feels natural as blinking.”

(we rhyme when we speak now? that rhyme was shit)

(I know, sorry.)

The buzz of the voices, mothers, fathers, friends, children. A lover. For the first time in a very long while, she didn’t feel alone.

The hive was right. Why did she ever question the hive? The hive was immaculate in its logic, perfect in every sense of the word.

(go children)

(find others)

(make them whole again)

A quiet murmur shivered through the buzz. Clivesdale, the mainland.

They were free to find others.

The hive was everything. The hive was peace. The hive was happiness.

Tom. Tom and Tim, devastated by Jane’s death.

She actually meant to take the weekend off and visit them, try to bond. Tom said they were both busy, and that he was bringing Tim over to Clivesdale for a couple days. It seemed like a vacation, but it was really an excuse for Tom to get new parts for his car. They left three days before Hachetfield fell. 

That meant they were still in Clivesdale.

The hive couldn’t bring back Jane, but it could bring back Tom and Tim.

It could make them happy.

It could make everyone happy.

She took Paul’s hand, grasping it firmly. The feeling of being in the hive was euphoric, and it made her near giddy. She could feel the music build, harmonies and choreography that were waiting to be performed. The world was a stage for them, and the stage was set.

“Are you ready? Ready to see?”

Paul grinned. She liked it when he grinned like that.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

And with that, hand and hand, they danced into the world.


End file.
